I gave him an inquiring look. “How was your meteor shower?”
“Nonexistent,” he growled. “The bloody fog rolled in and we could not see two feet. Lady Rose was so mightily put out I had to teach her sea chanties until two in the morning to get her to go to bed like a nice child.”
“Sea chanties?”
“I was rather hoping that a little forthright naval language might persuade Lord Rosemorran he should forbid her from associating with me,” he said, his expression hopeful.
“She will find a way,” I warned him.
His face fell and he helped himself to a plate of eggs and sausages. He ate in silence for several minutes, then began to toss scraps to the dogs. “Was it a jealous rival in mountaineering? A thwarted lover? A failed climbing student?”
I roused myself from my reverie. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alice Baker-Greene’s murderer,” he said. “I presume you have spent the last few hours inventing theories.”
“I do not invent theories,” I retorted in my chilliest tone. “I look at the facts and make deductions. There is such a thing as proper scientific method, you know.”
He shrugged. “I presumed you couldn’t resist the urge to fling yourself headlong into another investigation, regardless of my objections.”
I folded my arms over my chest. The fact that he had so neatly deduced my state of mind was maddening. “I do not fling myself anywhere. I have, upon occasion, been called upon to use my talents in the pursuit of justice. If I am called upon in the future, I shall of course do so again, but I have no need to go looking for such a thing.” The fact that this statement was not entirely a truthful reflection of my intentions was not, I decided, relevant to the conversation.
“Good,” he said flatly.
I opened my mouth, but the expression upon his face stopped me. The resentment at being told what to do ebbed and I almost reached for his hand. Instead, I sipped the last of my tea, taking a moment to meditate upon the conclusion of our last adventure and how easily it might have ended in tragedy.
“We have been fortunate,” I began.
“We have been damned lucky,” he corrected, his expression somber. “Veronica, either of us might have been killed through these ridiculous endeavors. I admit, I ought not to have said anything about the rope. That was akin to running a hare in front of a hound. But we decided yesterday to leave this with the chancellor to see what he decides. And the more I think on it, the more I believe we should, just this once, let things lie as they are. Alice Baker-Greene’s grandmother is her only family, and she is satisfied. So should we be.”
“How?” I demanded. “How can we let such an injustice pass without making at least an attempt to see it rectified?”
“We did,” he reminded me. “We presented the evidence, scant as it was, to the princess. She promised to pass the matter along to the chancellor.”
“And what if he is not inclined to pursue it?”
“Then it is at an end,” he said with a shrug.
“And you are content with that?” My tone betrayed my astonishment.
“Why does it surprise you?” He helped himself to another piece of toast, lavishing this one with honey.
“Because the Revelstoke Templeton-Vane I have known flings himself headlong into adventure,” I jibed. “He does not shrink from a challenge.”
His gaze was level and perhaps even slightly amused. “That is what you think I am doing? Shrinking from a challenge?”
I felt instantly the unfairness of the charge. Stoker, more than any person I had ever known, had shown himself not just willing to hurl himself into danger, but happy to do so. I could never consider without a shudder the glint of unholy excitement I had detected in his gaze when he prepared to do battle with an enormous combatant armed only with a rebenque, a narrow leather whip that might have flayed the flesh from his bones.* Coupled with that the numerous near drownings, stabbings, shootings, and broken bones he had acquired in my company, I had done him a gross disservice in needling him on such a point.
“Perhaps not,” I conceded, muttering the words into a sausage.
“Let us finish the exhibition to the best of our ability,” he suggested. “That will honor Alice Baker-Greene’s memory and improve the cause of mountaineering, especially for women. Surely that is a worthy tribute to her?”
“Indeed,” I said, my expression brightening. “And then we will devote ourselves anew to the work here. My case of Ornithoptera priamus poseidon chrysalides are very nearly ready to emerge.” This was no fabrication. I had been sent a case of the rare creatures as a Christmas present from Stoker’s elder brother, Lord Templeton-Vane—Tiberius to his friends. His lordship had embarked upon a series of travels with an eye to mending his grieving heart, and I had taken the opportunity to suggest a few stops of arresting natural beauty that might contribute to restoring his peace of mind. The fact that the locations were all host to the most elusive and coveted specimens of lepidoptera was the merest coincidence. The first parcel from Tiberius included a collection of O. p. poseidon, Common Green Birdwings, with a considerable supply of their favorite host plant, the Indian birthwort, or Dutchman’s pipe.
“Interesting how Tiberius’ travels are taking him to the most fertile hunting grounds for butterflies,” Stoker observed mildly. “The merest happenstance, I presume.”
His mouth twitched, and I knew he was close to laughing.
“I might have sent him a letter or two with suggestions on beauty spots he would appreciate,” I allowed. “But I suspect you know that, as you no doubt sent him a few hints of your own.”
He colored slightly. “There is a pretty little sloth I have been coveting,” he admitted. “If he happened to find one, I should not be entirely displeased.”
“I shall tell him to make you a birthday present of one,” I promised.
With that rare sympathy we shared, he fell silent then, holding my gaze, and I knew what he wanted.
I sighed. “I give you my word that I will not seek out any further involvement in the matter of Alice Baker-Greene’s death.”
“Then why,” he asked gravely, “do I suspect you of crossing your fingers?”
Before I could form an indignant response, young George appeared, waving a note overhead. “Delivered by messenger,” he said in breathless excitement as he thrust it into my hands. My name and Stoker’s were scrawled on the envelope. The missive inside contained only a few hasty words—Come at once. Curiosity Club. C.
I snatched up my hat and cloak and urged Stoker to haste. “Something is amiss,” I told him as he thrust his arms into his greatcoat, the tails flapping behind him as we strode along Marylebone Street. “Lady C. has the tidiest penmanship I have ever seen, but this looks as if it were written by an inebriated moose.”